


you've haunted me all my life

by sagexbrush



Series: how you get the girl [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Baby, F/M, Fluffy, Pregnancy, Sad, childhood best friends, conclusion, the last part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagexbrush/pseuds/sagexbrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re still broken,” she whispers. </p><p>	“And we always will be,” he says, maybe a tad bit too cheerful, because Lydia looks alarmed. “But I’ll continue to love you anyways and fix you with crappy duck tape.”<br/>.</p><p>(for BEASbeth)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've haunted me all my life

**Author's Note:**

> okay so first of all, if you haven't read the first three parts - this will make absolutely no sense so go read those.   
> .  
> secondly, this is for BEASbeth, because this wouldn't exist. Seriously. i had no ideas for it, and she had a whole arsenal, so thank you.  
> .  
> also thank you to LaughingSenselessly for convincing me to post the third part in the first place.  
> .  
> i hope you enjoy this :)

****__

**_(these are some pictures of the canyon they live up in, Big Cottonwood Canyon.)_ **

_**i.** _

Once upon a time, he may have compared Lydia Martin to a siren, but now he thought she was more like a dam. Holding back gallons and gallons of suppressed emotion, straining against the very foundations in her core.

            She still had the power to sink him.

            Still, the whole situation seems a bit unfair, considering he’s literally lying prone in bed because he can’t move because of a broken leg and a concussion and basically they’re saying he may have some problems – _anyways_ , the fact of the matter was that he was hopelessly, irrevocably, trapped.

            He had known he was in trouble from the moment he (achingly) woke up, because she had been standing ( _standing_ , not sitting) with her arms crossed, those beautiful green eyes scrutinizing him like he’s committed some awful crime.

            (He wonders if she’s on PMS.)

            (Probably.)

            “Do you want to know where I just was?” she demands, and he wishes he could talk normally, but it’s one of the unfortunate side effects of his ‘accident’, the words seem to tangle in his mouth like string.

            “Wh- where?”

            “At the freaking junkyard,” she snaps, “Assessing the damage to _your_ jeep.”

            He remembers, when a week ago (or blimey, a _month_ ) she had said _our_ jeep. _Our_. He liked the sound of that one a whole lot better.

            “Ho – how bad is it?”

            “Well, it’s not fixable, that’s for sure,” she says, and he’s slightly relieved when she chooses to sit down instead of standing like a freaking police officer. “I mean, according to the guy, the car flipped probably three times, and landed, top down, in the river. The _river_ Stiles.”

            “You know, tech – technically it’s called Cottonwood Creek.”

            He thinks he probably has a death wish. Lydia glares at him, and he senses the cracks beginning in the dams structure.

            “You almost were _killed_ Stiles.”

            She says it like it’s a big deal, like it hasn’t happened to him a billion other times before, working as a detective, finding Erica, hell even some of their escapades in _high school_. He wasn’t exactly the smartest when it came to ‘life choices’. (Except for loving Lydia of course.)

            He’s absolutely startled however when silent tears begin to creep over the edges of her eyelids, streaming down her cheeks. She’s not sobbing, just looking at him like she desperately wants to stop crying but _can’t_ –

            “I’m – I’m okay now,” he says, as clearly as he can.

            “You’re such a fucking idiot,” she mutters, and he holds out a hand, beckoning for her to come closer.

            “Wha’s – what’s this really about?” he asks, wishing his tongue was slightly less swollen feeling. “I mean, you didn’t lose me.”

            “ _God_ Stiles,” (the dam is open now), “It wasn’t only about losing you, I mean, losing you would suck but –“ she lets out a deep frustrated breath, her eyelids fluttering shut and then opening again, “I was scared about _doing this_ without you. And how do you fucking dare to do that do to me okay?” she’s getting angrier instead of sad now, “How dare you scare me like that and make me imagine life without you! Because damn it, you’re my _best friend_ and my – “ she chokes off, biting down at her lip hard and swallowing down, “And I don’t want to do this alone, how dare you almost make me do this alone!” she finally manages to (practically) shout, her eyes wet.

            He should be thinking about a billion other things entangled in that mess of emotions, but all that comes out is –

            “What do you mean, do it alone?”

            She seems taken aback by his question, like she wasn’t expecting to have to answer something like this for a _while_ , and he thinks, _oh god this is the moment when she finally dumps me,_ because she’s _Lydia Martin_ and _Lydia Martin_ doesn’t stay with guys like Stiles Stilinski.

            She seems to gather her nerve at the same time he’s about to ask her to just get it over with, and he’s really confused when she takes a step forward and slides her hand into his.

            “You know how you accused me of lying that night? Well you were kind of right,” she rubs at her face like she wants to clean the emotions free (and his heart sinks at her words, he was right, she had found somebody new.)

            “What do you mean?” he’s trying to stay completely calm, but the motherfucking heart monitor next to him (he will take a mallet to it someday) starts beeping so loud he could confuse it for a car alarm in the street.

            “Well I did go to the drugstore,” she admits like she’s nervous, her eyes darting to their clasped hands like she’s scared of the expression on his face, “But I didn’t _just_ buy lady products,” she bites her lip, “I also bought a couple of pregnancy tests.”

            If it weren’t for the heart monitor beeping so loudly in his ear, he probably would have assumed his heart had stopped beating. He stares blankly at the wall in front of him, mouth hanging slightly open –

            Lydia continues, “I know I could have just waited for another time – a _better_ time – but I – I didn’t want to tell you if it was negative and so I just drove off and bought some and… you know the rest.”

            She finally looks up at him, her eyes shining with emotions that don’t make sense – _embarrassment_ and _shame_ and all that’s running through his head is why? Why is she ashamed?

            “You didn’t want to tell me if it was negative?” the pieces start to form together in his mind, bit by bit, and it feels like his stomach is being filled with acid, “But you’re telling me now, so does that mean it’s positive?” he’s empty of emotion. He doesn’t know what to feel. Doesn’t know how to think or speak.

            Lydia seems to be going through something similar.

            “Yeah,” she finally manages to say, “Yeah. Every one was positive.”

            She looks scared, like he’s going to shout at her or something (which was absolutely ridiculous by the way, it took two to put them in this situation) so he holds out his arm that’s not currently being hooked to some gruesome machine and –

            “C’mere,” he says, his voice slightly gruff, and she basically collapses into his side, her face burying into his shoulder – huge wracking sobs shaking her body. “’M not leaving you anytime soon.”

 

 

****

It’s weird coming home, for whatever reason he’s expecting everything to have changed, just like everything _has_ , that the pictures on the wall should be different, that his lap top shouldn’t be where he left it on the coffee table, untouched, that everything other than a few random dishes in the sink is the _same_.

            It takes him approximately two seconds to forget he has crutches. He luckily steps forward normally first with his good foot, and Lydia realizes his mistake way before he does, and she lunges forward, wraps her arms around his waist and yanks him backwards.

            “I hate these,” he says vehemently, “I hate these so much.”

            “Don’t we all,” she mutters, guiding him over to a couch.

 

**_iii._ **

****

There’s something missing.

            It’s like a jigsaw puzzle they’ve put back together, but there’s one piece gone and he can’t seem to find it for the _life of him –_ their argument still hovers between them with a thousand things left unsaid.

            _If only_ he thinks, if only they were a normal couple, if only his fight hadn’t ended in an accident, if only she was pregnant and they could just _talk_. (He can’t find himself minding the pregnancy thing too much.)

            He should be scared, scared to be a father, scared for everything entailed, but when he looks at Lydia and the secret she carries – he just feels _excited_.

            The awkwardness _, the missing piece_ , is in the way they go to the grocery store and don’t sing out a rhythm, it’s when their washing dishes side by side, or how Lydia goes out walking alone and he lies awake for hours, wondering if she’s going to leave him.

            It’s in tender but strict way she commands him to use his crutches ( _But Lyds, the ends keeping knocking into things_!) in the way her hand lingers by her stomach with a scared expression and how she’s quieter when watching her favorite shows.

            He can’t take it anymore.

            He’s staring at his laptop, tapping out a rhythm with the keys, Stiles is being possessed, Stiles needs to be saved by Lydia and _he can’t take_ _the distance between them anymore._

“That’s it,” he declares, hobbling (on his crutches okay) to where she’s sprawled on the couch, his heart beating _slightly_ more rapidly when he sees the bulge of her stomach through the T-shirt she’s wearing. “We need to talk.”

            Lydia sits up, and it makes _him_ nervous that she looks slightly afraid.

            “I don’t – “

            “I said I didn’t trust you because I’m an idiotic jackass,” he says at once, plopping down on the couch. He really wishes he could stand, but considering how much he jacked up his leg – well the chances weren’t good, “And I forgot to remember how much you’ve changed since high school.”

            “Because I was a bitch in high school,” she murmurs in shame, her flaring pink.

            He shakes his head slowly, “Nah, you really weren’t. You just were an actress. A really good one actually. An actress playing a siren who sunk people, when all you wanted to do was help them.”

            Her eyes fill with tears, and he blames her out of control hormones, because Lydia didn’t _cry_ , not ever, not unless she had to. He edges closer, but doesn’t put his arms around her, not yet, because they need to talk or they just _won’t_.

            “I left you for Jackson,” she wipes her eyes furiously, and he rolls his.

            “Are we still going on about this? You made a mistake Lydia. It’s fine. You were in high school, and your best friend had all the sudden said that he was in love with you. Any normal girl would have reacted that way.”

            “But if I hadn’t,” she says quietly, “None of this would have happened.”

            “Think of it like this,” he says, and this time he does put his arm around her because he can’t fucking resist, it’s _Lydia Martin_ , “If you hadn’t ditched me then, I would have been a cop, you would have been a scientist, and we never would have moved out here. We would have fallen apart.”

            She sniffles, “Why would we have fallen?”

            “Because when I came to get you from the airport that day, we were both broken, and you can’t break something that’s already broken.”

            She wipes her eyes again, and he knows she wants more than anything to stop crying.

            “We’re still broken,” she whispers.

            “And we always will be,” he says, maybe a tad bit too _cheerful_ , because Lydia looks alarmed. “But I’ll continue to love you anyways and fix you with crappy duck tape.”

            “You totally just ruined a beautiful speech by bringing in _duck tape,”_ she says, rolling her eyes so hard that he’s slightly concerned, “Why couldn’t you have said glue or something?”

            “Hey, I didn’t want to _completely_ steal the speech from my fourth-grade self.”

            “You were pretty smart in fourth grade.”

            “I’ve _always_ been smart Lydia.”

            There’s still something bothering her, something in those green eyes that’s hesitant, like she doesn’t know quite how to phrase whatever’s on her mind.

            “What’s wrong?” he asks, shifting slightly so he move his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away her tears.

            “Why did you say you didn’t believe me that night?” she whispers, and he remembers the heat of the moment, the rushed _i don’t believe you_ something that’s probably been ringing through her head over and over again since that day.

            “Remember all the mean insults you told me in high school?” he asks, and she looks horrified.

            “That’s why? You’re – “

            “Let me finish,” he says, “You didn’t mean any of those things right? You were just frustrated with yourself.”

            “Yeah – “

            “Same here,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean it Lyds. I just thought – well I mean why would you stay with me? I’m just – I’m just Stiles.”

            Her eyes grow wider. “You thought I was going to leave you?”

            “Everyone,” he chokes off, starts again, “Everyone I love like you leaves. My Mom, you, Erica – you all left and I was – I was _alone_. I just keep expecting to wake up or something – “

            She lunges forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him. “We’ve been going about this all wrong,” she whispers, “You keep telling me that you’re not going to leave and I forgot about _you_.”

            “It’s oka – “

            “No it’s not Stiles,” she says sternly, “I was so obsessed with myself when I got here, that I didn’t even stop to consider – stop to even think that you were broken in the same ways.”

            He rubs his fingers over her cheekbones again, “It’s okay,” he promises, “We’re going to be okay.”

            And maybe for the first time, he believes it.

****

**_iv._ **

           

            He goes to her first appointment on a Tuesday.

            “Have you been to one of these before?”

            She looks slightly sheepish. “Yes, but you were unconscious so I couldn’t really invite you.”

            “Invite me?”

            “Or come?”

            “That’s better.”

            He doesn’t like the hospital, and neither does Lydia.

            She’s strong though, and only breaks down when he’s sitting next to her, hearing a heartbeat reverberate through the room.

            That’s when she turns her head into his shoulder and cries and cries and cries.

            (He thinks they’re still scared about losing each other.)

            “It’s a girl,” the woman waving the magic wand. He’s referring it to that anyways.

            (At this point, Stiles may be crying too, but they’re manly tears okay, _manly tears_.)

 

           

            “Do you think she’s going to like playing soccer with us?”

            “Well, she’ll have to, won’t she?”

 

**_vi._ **

            “Leggings?” Stiles walks (or hobbles in on his crutches, your choice), to find his girlfriend sitting on the couch, her legs propped up on the coffee table, his laptop on her thighs. “Really Lydia?”     

            “They provide support,” she deadpans.

            “So do sweatpants,” he counters. 

            “No they don’t and WHAT DID YOU JUST DO STILINSKI?” she shrieks, flipping the laptop shut.

            He winces. He knows what part she got to.

            “I asked Allison before hand – “

            “YOU KILLED ALLISON?” Lydia looks enraged, and he may or may not be concerned for his life _okay._

“She lost a bet,” Stiles shrugs, “And neither of us had money at the time, she knew my story idea, so she bet her character’s life.”

            “You can’t kill Allison.”

            “I’m afraid I did.”

            “You suck.”

            “Thank you.”

           

           

            He comes in the next morning to find her (in sweatpants) sitting at the barstool, reading the last Harry Potter book. (She had refused to read Allison’s goodbye.)

            “Changed our minds about the leggings, have we?” he asks, raising one eyebrow, and taking a long sip of his coffee. She glares at him. ( _“You know full well I can’t drink that stuff only because of your spawn.)_

            “Oh shut up,” she snaps.”

            It’s later, after he’s taken a shower and desperately needs some comfort, that he discovers that after all, she’s got the last laugh.

            “LYDS, WHERE ARE ALL MY SWEATPANTS?”

 

 

            “I blame Martha.”

            He looks at her, affronted. “You can’t blame Martha.”

            “I can, and I will,” Lydia says stubbornly, “She’s the one who got you started on this, this _obsession_.”

            “It’s not an obsession Martin, it’s a _necessity_.”

            She raises one eyebrow. “A necessity?”

            “A necessity.”

            “I really don’t think it is.”

            “SHE NEEDS A NAME LYDIA,” he says, “We can’t keep calling her it!”

            “You call her little star,” Lydia points out, “Not it.”

            “Can we at least _discuss_ names?” he begs her. If they don’t, she could end up with something like _his_ train wreck of a name.

            She hesitates, he can see it dancing across her eyes and he sometimes wishes he could read her mind, get some insight on what she’s thinking.

            He can’t forget what she said, _we’re still broken._

“I like the name Lila,” she says quietly, her eyes flickering away from his face, “Lila Allison Stilinski.”

            “Why Allison?”

            “Because you killed her off in your book series,” Lydia replies stubbornly, stepping closer to him, before resting her chin against his shoulder.

            He remembers a quote from a TV show they had watched the other day. _A hug is just another way to hide your face._

“Lila it is,” he murmurs.

****

**_ix_**.

            “My parents want to come out and visit at some point,” Lydia says quietly one afternoon, when they’re curled up under blankets on their front porch, the brisk wind lifting up her hair and sending the strawberry blonde tendrils floating.

            “Together?” he remembers the downfall of their marriage, remembers clutching her in the darkness of her bedroom in second grade while her parents screamed at one another.

            She nods, “Mom says they’re trying to work out their issues.”

            There’s fear in her eyes.

            “Why don’t you want them to come?” he asks, they had already made plans for the Sheriff to come in town the week that Lila was due (even if it was still around four months away).

            “Because they both want to come and meet the baby at the same time,” Lydia whispers, “And I know how them ‘trying to work out their issues’ works, even if they’re not married anymore.”

            “Then ask them to come on different weeks.”

            “I can’t –“

            “Then I will,” he says firmly, “Lila’s not going to grow up with anyone shouting around her, I promise.”

            Her eyes are full of tears again, and he pulls her into a tight hug, kissing her forehead.

            “I love you,” she whispers.

            “I love you too.”

****

 

            “Lydia, there are a billion things wrong with this plan,” he says, “I love Roscoe, but it’s not a family vehicle.”

            She pats the side of the Jeep, “I paid good money for it to be fixed, and we’re going to use it.”

            “It’s an old crappy jeep.”

            “But,” she says, flashing back to him with a quick smile, “It still works.”

            He grins.

 

**_xi._ **

 

            “I want to go hiking,” Lydia whines one day, waving a foot by his face, “I want to swim, and ski and do everything _but_ sit on the couch and read.”

            He ignores her. She’s had a bad case of cabin fever ever since the doctor’s told her to take it easy, that she was overdoing it and needed to stop, and it was starting to drive _him_ crazy.

            That’s when the idea strikes him.

            “C’mon,” he says, limping to his feet , and yanking her along with him. The doctor said he’ll probably have a permanent limp, but he can’t really seem to mind.

            “Where are we going?” she asks curiously, waddling after him. (He finds it adorable, her little waddle.)

            He helps her into the Jeep, takes the drivers seat, and turns up the road they used to walk on.

            “We can’t go hiking,” he says, “But sometimes, when I was too tired to hike, I used to just drive along this road and down into Park City.”

            “Park City?” she crinkles her nose, and he laughs. Oh, how it feels good to laugh.

            “It’s a magical place,” he says mysteriously, and she laughs too. He loves her laugh. She unrolls the window, sticking her head out and letting her hair fly.

            He unrolls his too, and suddenly the car is filled with a thousand roaring winds, whipping his hair around, carrying their laughter on the wind.

            (They’re going to be okay he thinks.)

****

 

            “Hello little star,” he whispers, pressing his face against Lydia’s stomach. He feels the kick, a little hard, against his cheekbone.

            “Nice,” Lydia remarks, “She’s already giving you hell, before she’s even come out of the womb.”

            “I think she should just stay in here forever,” he says, pressing his palm flat against her stomach, feeling Lila kick him again.

            “Um, tell that to me when you’re carrying her inside your body.”

            He looks up at her, “Um – no thank you?”

            “That’s what I thought.”

            He doesn’t tell her that he just wants to protect her forever.

            He doesn’t talk about his detective days, but mental images of Erica parade across his mind in an endless loop.

            Lydia rests her hand on the top of his head, and he thinks that somehow, she knows. Somehow, she knows.

 

 

**_xiv._ **

            It’s an accident, he swears.

            She’s standing in the kitchen, making some kind of pasta, her hair tied up in a loose bun, and it just sort of – _slips out._

            “We should get married,” he says in a billion wrong ways, and Lydia promptly drops the spoon into the pasta, her hand automatically going to her bulging stomach like it always does when she’s nervous.

            “What did you just say?”

            However, he’s like the best at improv (no laughing okay) so he crosses over to her, taking both of her hands in his.

            “I know your scared of us ending up like your parents,” he whispers, “That we’ll fight and separate, but I don’t think we’re like them. I’m Lydia, and your Stiles – “

            “I’m Stiles?” she interrupts, breaking off with a snort of laughter, “So I guess I’ll be a bumbling idiot from now on.”

            “Oh come on Lydia,” he groans, “I’m trying to be romantic.”

            “You’re totally making this up on the spot, aren’t you?” she asks.

            “Um – yes.”

            She smirks. “Continue.”

            He can’t believe she’s not rejected him this time, not that he had any doubt she would say no, or want to say no – but it’s lingered at the back of his mind. _What if?_

“So uh – Lydia Martin, we’ve been best friends since the first grade. You kicked some guy in the balls, and stole his soccer ball, and we’ve been causing mischief ever since, and I know, I can _feel_ it, that we’re gonna stay together. We’ve been through hell and back, and I can’t imagine my life without you, so please – “ he reaches over and takes a twist tie from the counter, “Will you marry me?”

            She hesitates, and he doesn’t blame her. It’s a big decision, and she’s Lydia Martin, so if she had shouted ‘yes’ at him, he probably would have been slightly concerned.

            Her eyes fill with tears, she’s really hormonal and scary, but he’s grateful now because it almost makes it feel more real, like this isn’t some weird dream he’s having.

            “Yes,” she finally says, “I want to marry you.”

            That’s how they get engaged, him kneeling on their kitchen floor, her in (his) sweatpants, seventh months pregnant, and him tying a twist tie around her finger.

 

 

            “What do you think she’ll be like?” Lydia whispers to him, late one night, “Lila.”

            “She’ll be her own person I guess,” he says, because the idea that another human being, someone with personalities and laughter and things that are entirely _their own_ – someone that’s half him, half Lydia, is still terrifying. In a good kind of way.

            “I hope she doesn’t make the same mistakes I did,” Lydia mutters, but she’s half asleep and the words come out slurred.

            He doesn’t say anything as she drifts off to sleep, because isn’t that the biggest fear one could have?

            It isn’t his biggest fear.

**_xvi._ **

 

            He wakes up screaming _wake up._

He begins to shakily sob.

            “What’s wrong?” Lydia frantically wakes up as well, her eyes fluttering over him.

            “I can’t,” he shakes, “What if I – what if I leave too?”

            She looks up at him in confusion, “What do you mean, leave?”

            “Like my Mom,” he whispers, “What if I leave you two all alone?”

            He remembers the weeks after his Mother’s death – the _years_ afterwards. It’s not necessarily something he likes to think about, the emptiness in his eyes, the way she had eventually shied away from him, the panic attacks that had shaken his frame.

            “You won’t,” she promises, even though it’s false and she doesn’t have a real answer.

            “How do you know that?”

            (She doesn’t.)

            “Because just like how we’re not my parents,” she whispers softly, “We’re not _yours_.”

            He kisses her then, fiercer than he has in months, like he’s terrified she might slip through his fingers again.

 

 

            “I want to meet Lila,” Lydia says firmly one day, her feet propped up on his legs. He’s slowly rubbing her heels, “I am sick of her.”

            “She hasn’t even started crying yet,” he points out, and she gently nudges him, “All she’s done is made me drive to the grocery store at six in the morning for peanut butter ice cream.”

            “But I get to have coffee,” she moans, “Coffee _and_ alcohol, and I’ll be able to see my own feet.”

            He secretly loves how big she’s gotten because despite all her complaining, she still glows like she’s carrying a glorious secret.

            “And we’ll be able to be parents!”

            She rolls her head back, “A year ago, I never thought I would be here.”

            “Is that a good or bad thing?” he asks, almost concerned she’ll say _bad_.

            “Good,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. He’s got a permanently raised part on his head now, a scar covered under his hair. She finds it, and lightly runs her fingers over it.

            “I’m glad too,” he whispers, and brightens as a different song on the radio comes on. “I love you I love you I love you and all of your piece!” he croons along, and she lightly smacks the back of his head.

****

**_xviii._ **

            The baby comes two weeks early, because _of course_ it does, and _of course_ Stiles is at Martha’s shop when it happens.

            “She’s just frustrated,” he explains, “She wants to get out really badly.”

            “You both will be wishing Lila was still inside her when she’s born,” Martha says sagely, “Babies are loud.”

            His phone chooses that moment to ring, and he holds up one finger to Martha, because it’s Lydia and he’s the only person he’d interrupt a conversation with Martha to talk to.

            “Hey Lyds?”

            “GET UP HERE NOW!” she shrieks down the line, “Lila’s ready!”

            “WHAT DO YOU MEAN LILA’S READY?!” he demands in a total panic, the book he was going to buy from Martha (City of Bones) going flying. Martha giggles. _Giggles_.

            “I mean, I’ve been having labor pains, and I timed them to make sure they were regular, and she’s coming, so please get up here before our baby slides out of me.”

            “You know, I don’t think that’s really how it works.”

            “ _Stiles_!” Lydia and Martha (who he assumes has been listening to this conversation the whole time) chime in unison.

            “Right!” he exclaims, “Right! I’m on my way!”

            (She punches him upon arrival.)

 

 

            Lila Allison Stilinski is born on November 7, 2015, a little small, absolutely red in the face, screaming her head off, and with small sprigs of fair hair that he thinks will probably turn strawberry blonde.

            She’s beautiful, and she’s already got him wrapped around his finger.

            “We’re parents,” Lydia’s eyes are as big as saucers, “We’re actually parents.”

            “That we are,” he says, trying to pretend like he’s not absolutely freaking out inside at the moment.

            (He loves them both more than he can say.)

 

**_xix._ **

 

            Over the next few months, he learns a couple of things. One, being a parent was hard. Two, Lydia’s Dad was a jerk. And three, he loves Lila more than anything. Well, maybe equal to Lydia.

            She likes his voice and Lydia’s hair, loves to throw up on him more than Lydia and its amazing and terrifying to have someone _rely_ on him, him and only him, because – well he was _Stiles_. It wasn’t something that just _happened_.

            He dedicates the third book to Lila.

 

**_xx. (two years later)_ **

 

            Stiles is all for eloping to Las Vegas, but Lydia puts her foot down. _“When people ask Lila where her parents got married, do you really want her to say Vegas?”_ He then argues that what they’re doing is not that much different, just a hell of a lot more expensive, but she doesn’t listen.

            Now, he’s glad she made this choice. The wind blows gently in her hair, the canyon sprawling around them, their few guests slightly out of breath from the long hike, Lydia in a beautiful simple white dress, Lila at their heels in her little pink gown – everything’s quite frankly perfect.

            “Do you, Stiles Stilinski, take Lydia Martin to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Scott’s the one marrying them, because apparently they just gave those licenses out to _anyone_ and he had practically begged them to let him marry them.

            He doesn’t have to hesitate. He doesn’t even have to think, because this is the moment he’s been waiting for since third grade, since she played soccer with him, since he pretended to be her prince charming and held her when her parents fought -  the kiss on the locker room floor, the dance at prom, _i sunk you’s_ and Reece’s peanut butter and Lila –

            “I do,” he promises.

            “And do you, Lydia Martin, takes Stiles Stilinski to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

            “I do,” she whispers, almost shyly.

            “You may kiss the bride.”

            He leans down, and she leans up, and they kiss deeply, in the mountain air, with their daughter and their friends, and maybe they aren’t broken after all.

            Maybe they’re slowly fixing each other.


End file.
